


Tell It To The World, Why Don't You

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Newsies (1992)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-20
Updated: 2008-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1632872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Story by utensilestrength</p><p>Sharing a room for the night meant more than an uneasy mix of thrown elbows and awkward silences. It meant a shortage of towels. And blankets. And beds. It meant sometimes, those shortages got taken personally. Spot Conlon, for instance, liked to take things personally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell It To The World, Why Don't You

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide, emiime! I had a lot of fun writing this (and rewatching Newsies for inspiration. Er, yes, completely innocent inspiration).  
> Cocoa, thanks, and love to a caramel macchiato for being the world's greatest beta and keeping me sane throughout the process.
> 
> Written for emiime

 

 

Race walked outside as the shouting reached a new pitch. It wasn't that he didn't want to be in the meeting. He knew as well as anyone that these meetings were important -- in fact, he knew it better than some of the guys currently in there yelling their heads off. It was just that Race, unlike Specs or Skittery, knew that the yelling wasn't really going to accomplish anything.

David probably knew that, too, but that didn't stop him from holding the meetings. "If we're ever going to change anything about this city," he always said, "we have to stick together." What David never got was that everyone understood that. Together, they were stronger than they were apart. Any bum knows that. What Dave never got was how to get everyone to play nice -- or even how to get through one meeting without somebody throwing a punch.

Race turned to look inside. Jack had stood up, and was pounding the table to try to get someone -- Race's money was on Snipeshooter -- to stop yelling. Race rolled his eyes and turned his collar up. He'd be warmer inside the meeting, but he'd also have to deal with another hour and a half of yelling.

And why would anyone want to deal with that when you could see what was out on the street?

Race walked around the block until he saw the gathering. Guys he'd seen hanging around the Brooklyn docks were clustered under a streetlight playing cards. Race pulled out a cigarette as he walked up, twitching his fingers back and forth to keep the blood moving. "Hey, got a light?" he asked the nearest man. Nodding his thanks at the proffered match, he watched the game. Race still wasn't good at poker -- he had too many tells. So he watched the game instead, eyes half-closed as he fell into the rhythm. That was the best part about games -- the way they always fell into the same grooves. You could sit all night playing jacks, barely moving, and not get tired because the rhythm of the game felt right. Marbles. Three-card monte. Race watched as the third man in, a skinny guy with a ratty hat, kept winning. He kept looking out at the other players, face as open and honest as a Sunday school teacher's. Race ignored that. He never looked at anyone's eyes when they were betting. It was the rest of the body that told you what was really going on. Rat the Hat kept tugging at a hole in his trousers.

Race stomped out his cigarette when he heard the yelling start up again. He walked away from the game -- not quickly, or they'd think he was a pickpocket. He got back to the meeting house just in time to catch the end of what looked to have been an interesting fight. The boys surrounding the two fighters were offering more taunts than encouragement. "Wrap it up already," called a boy from the back of the crowd as he approached.

Spot and a boy Race didn't immediately recognize circled other, throwing ragged punches at one another. The boy had a black eye, and Spot's jaw didn't appear to be working too well. Spot swung and missed, and the boy -- Joey Falconi, Race realized, one of the guys from Midtown -- landed a punch in Spot's ribcage. Spot doubled over, and Joey pulled his fist back to deliver one to end it all.

It was then that Spot hit him in the stomach.

Joey dropped to the ground. Spot stood over him and for a second, there was silence. Then the fight was over, and the boys rushed to crowd around him. "Move back, move _back_ ," he said, and spit blood on the ground. Someone tentatively offered him his cane, afraid he'd get the same treatment for daring to touch it that Joey Falconi just got. The crowd shut up again as the kid -- it was always a kid, Race thought; this one couldn't have been more than seven -- opened his eyes wider and shrank away from the thing he was holding. Spot stared at him, eyes wide like a snake's. The kid clamped his mouth shut and proffered the cane.

Spot didn't grab or snatch, ever. He reached for the cane, his eyes focused on the kid, who didn't look to be breathing. As his hand closed around the cane, the kid let go and dropped his hands to his sides. He didn't back up, though. You didn't back away from Spot Conlon unless he told you you could.

Spot jerked his head and the kid bolted. The crowd surged forward again. Someone offered Spot a rag. He wiped the blood off his chin with the back of his hand and then cleaned his hands with the rag. He tossed it back, not looking to see who had given it to him, and sat down on a box by the wall. His fingers clenched around his cane as he stared out at the boys, meeting no one's eyes. Blood still dripped from one side of his mouth.

"What happened?" Race murmured to David, who was watching the crowd disperse. Race watched Spot, who was still sitting by the wall, elbows on his knees. His eyes were focused on the metal end of the cane, which glowed golden under the streetlight. Spot's hands caressed the polished wood of the cane as he twirled it slowly. Spot liked power and respect, but he also had a notorious weakness for shiny things.

"They got into a fight about raising money for supplies, didn't you know that? Oh, of course," said David tiredly, before Race could respond. "You _left_ before that happened."

"Well, at least I didn't miss anything important. Jack get everyone to agree about the rally?" The key to handling David, Race had learned, was to make him focus on the things that were getting done. Because things were happening, slowly. Slower than anyone would like, Race had to admit, but they were happening nonetheless. Younger kids were going to school instead of working on the streets, more often than not. The hospitals that would treat street kids made themselves known. And every working kid knew which churches always left the basement door open.

David ran a hand over his hair -- one of his tells. "We never got that far," he said. Race winced. Hopefully neither Jack nor David would try to start up the discussion later that night. Speaking of -- Race nudged David's arm.

"We'll figure it out next week. Come on," he said. "Let's get outta here before those jerks from Brooklyn get all the good beds."

The most annoying part about the weekly meetings wasn't the hours, or the yelling, or even the fights that sometimes broke out. It was the lack of transportation. Meeting in a central location after work meant that the boys from the outer boroughs couldn't get back there afterwards. So everyone crammed in with someone else -- sometimes several someone elses -- and spent a very uncomfortable night. Spot and his gang were staying at Jack's place tonight, which made Race a little nervous. Spot Conlon on a good night was someone to be wary of, but Spot Conlon on a night when he'd gotten beat up was the stuff of nightmares.

Race paused to tie his shoe and cast a glance back towards the wall. Spot was already gone. The thing about Spot was that he'd take any kind of beating as long as he walked away with what he wanted. Race had seen him get shoulders dislocated, teeth knocked out -- baby teeth, but still -- even broken bones to get something. Sometimes, it was turf. Sometimes, it was to prove how tough he was. Sometimes it was to get you to shut your mouth for five stinking minutes. Whatever he wanted, though, he _got_. He just wouldn't let the fight end until he had whatever it was he wanted. 

By the time Race caught up with David, he and Jack were already deep in conversation. Jack's only acknowledgement of Race was a "Can you believe this?" before turning back to David.

"I'm telling you, Dave, we can't just sit around like this. We gotta get the guys from the Bowery to shut up so we can get something _done_." David was raising his eyebrows a lot -- another tell, which meant _I disagree with you but I can't say that because it won't help anything_. Jack kept throwing his hands up in as he walked, which meant _we should be done with this conversation already_. "What do _you_ think, Race," he asked as David held open the door to the lodging house and they all walked through. Jack asking for input was his sign that he was done with the conversation; that he'd talked himself out. That didn't mean he wouldn't listen, but it generally meant _you_ had to do a lot of listening if you wanted to suggest anything. Not a lot of people besides Race and David knew that. That was one of the reasons the meetings weren't going so well.

"I think we got a man on third base but nobody to send him home," he said, shrugging off his coat in a hurry. Race hated winter because it made it harder to move -- harder to shoot a marble, or pick a pocket if it came to that. It was also harder to see the way a man's weight shifted, or if a boy was going to rush you. You couldn't tell anything useful by looking at a winter coat.

The three of them clattered up the steps, knowing they'd all get a tongue-lashing in the morning for coming in at all hours of the night and waking half the neighborhood and what the city was coming to these days, it was enough to make you stop running a House For Wayward Boys and open up a soup kitchen. But the kid who didn't rush through the washing-up before bed was the kid who ended up with a bottom bunk near the window, or on the mattress with a hole in it. Especially tonight. The Brooklyn gang was big enough that they'd all have to double up, and no one was less excited about that than Race.

Sharing a room for the night meant more than an uneasy mix of thrown elbows and awkward silences. It meant a shortage of towels. And blankets. And beds. It meant sometimes, those shortages got taken personally. Spot Conlon, for instance, liked to take things personally. He also liked to take personal things -- Race was still missing a pocketwatch from the last time the Brooklyn gang had stayed over. Race followed Jack and David (who had now moved on to arguing about whether buying straw boaters for their protest outside the button factory was a good idea) up the last flight of stairs.

Jack, David, and Race walked into all-out pandemonium. The room was a blur of flying clothes and half-naked guys, most still damp from washing up or, in some cases, a snowball fight on the way home. Jack smiled for a moment -- and then someone's undershirt hit him in the face. Jack threw it back, and started tugging his boots off.

A pair of suspenders flew by Race's head as he peeled off his vest. He splashed some water from the ewer in the corner onto his face, grimacing at the ice-cold water and the sock that hit the back of his head. Turning around, he whipped his hat at Mush. 

And then Spot Conlon walked out of the room, and everything slowed down. Someone backed into a wall. From the corner of his eye, Race saw Boots slip on a stray pillow and fall to the floor with a muffled thump. If there had been a piano playing (and if Skittery had had his way, there would have been), it would have stopped.

Spot's face was pink from the cold water he'd scrubbed it with. A bruise was swelling on his temple, and there was still blood on his right ear. He set his jaw and looked around the room.

Jack walked to the middle of the room. "Hey, Spot."

"Jack." Spot walked toward him, swinging his cane lightly in his hand. "So we're bunking down for the night?"

"Up to you, Spot." Jack stuck his hands in his pockets.

"Looks to me like you punks have been ... busy." Spot caught the eye of every boy in the room.

Jack leaned back on his heels, taking full advantage of the height difference between them. "I know it ain't much, but unless you got a better offer somewhere else --" Jack bowed his head mockingly, "-- my place is your place."

Spot's mouth worked into something between a smile and a sneer. "Okay." He walked into the middle of the room and dropped his cane next to a bed. He hopped onto the top bunk.

That broke the spell. Immediately, everyone rushed for a bed, familiar or unfamiliar. Race was shoved this way and that across the room. Someone shoved him against the corner of a bed -- Race glanced up and saw only one pair of feet dangling off. Without a second thought, Race lifted himself up. Guys were still scattering around the room, trying to find any free space. Someone had turned the lights off, and Race heard mumbled curses as people crashed into each other. Eventually, the sound of stumbling feet slowed, and Race turned to the boy next to him.

And found himself face to face with Spot Conlon.

Sharing a bed with someone from a different borough happened, of course, but it was something people tried to avoid. It was just easier to trust someone you knew. But Race wasn't about to tell Spot that he didn't trust him.

"I can go, if you'd rather be alone," he said. 

They both sat up and surveyed the darkened room. Every bed was full of two bodies negotiating how to sleep next to someone without killing them.

Spot shrugged. "It's fine."

Race nodded. "Well -- g'night." He turned away from Spot and pulled the blanket up to his chin -- oh, good God, the _blanket_. Race had a well-earned reputation for stealing covers. He couldn't help it -- he couldn't sleep if his feet were cold, and years of living with newsies had left him with a legendary half-awake kick-and-snatch reflex.

One he'd have to unlearn in the next ten minutes if he wanted to wake up tomorrow morning.

Race shut his eyes tight and tried to breathe slowly. He let various ideas drift across his mind -- the first sip of coffee, just hot enough to go straight down to your belly; the little skips a racehorse made right after it won; the weight of a good cigar against your lips. Speaking of weight ... Race grimaced as he realized his arm had fallen asleep. Every muscle in his body tensed against his will at the realization that he had to roll over.

Despite his study of the practice, Race had never been especially good at faking sleep. Jack had given him no amount of grief for it when they were younger, mocking his best fake snores and dragging him out of bed regardless. He concentrated on one part of his body after another, telling them to relax. Now all he had to do was roll over to face Spot Conlon and pretend that wasn't what he was doing.

Race held off as long as he could, but the numbness was spreading into his hand. There was nothing for it: either he turned over or he cut off his arm. And while he knew at least five people who'd be only too happy to do that for him, Race didn't want to give them the satisfaction.

Spot was a light sleeper, so Race eased himself slowly onto his back. He would have sighed in relief, but one of the first things you learned was never to let anyone know you'd won. Especially when you hadn't won anything except a battle against your own chicken liver. Race flexed his toes in victory, and as a distraction from the tingles spreading over his right arm. He gritted his teeth as the blood started flowing more surely and his arm started throbbing.

Race shut his eyes tightly, listening to the sound of dozens of boys trying to sleep. Three beds over, someone yawned. Jack started to snore. Race breathed evenly. Any second now, he would drift off to sleep and that would be that. Any time now. Five, four, three, two ...

Race opened his eyes and looked at the crack in the ceiling above him. Nothing was helping. He cast his eyes around the room -- everyone was drifting off to sleep.

Except the guy lying right next to him. Spot's eyes were wide open, and he was staring at Race.

Immediately Race closed his eyes. Maybe he'd just imagined it, or it was a shadow from the window. But no, as he cracked his left eye, Spot was still staring. Spot staring at anyone was never a good thing, because it meant he expected something from you. Race couldn't think of anything Spot could want from him at this hour -- after all, he already had Race's pocketwatch. It was dark. They were both supposed to be asleep. Asking Spot why he was staring at him -- foolhardy enough in broad daylight -- was definitely not an option. Race took a deep breath, and prepared to do one of the bravest things he'd ever done.

He looked for Spot Conlon's tells.

He didn't seem to be breathing any faster or slower than normal. His hands lay still at his sides. He wasn't twitching, or shifting his weight, or doing anything to suggest what he was thinking. Race craned his neck and squinted into the darkness, but no; not even Spot's feet were doing anything out of the ordinary.

Race let his gaze travel back up Spot's body -- oh, hell, he'd been _looking_ at Spot's body and there was no way for Spot not to notice. Race could feel the tingle at the back of his neck meaning he was nervous; he balled his hands into fists to prevent himself from scratching it. He was looking at Spot's chest now, and sooner or later he was going to have to look up to meet Spot's eyes, and Race didn't think he could handle that. He blinked rapidly, hoping that Spot might suddenly disappear, or be replaced by someone else. He'd even take Jack's snoring over this.

He was on Spot's neck now, moving towards his chin. Suddenly, he noticed that the shadows on Spot's chin were shifting. He wondered what that meant.

And then he didn't have time to think about anything else, because Spot kissed him.

Race woke up several more times during the night. The first time, his knuckles had gone white with the effort of clinging to a corner of the blanket. Spot had taken the rest and was wrapped in it like a cocoon. Race wrestled back his half and drifted off again, only to be woken up some time later by Spot jerking _his_ half back. They continued their silent battle over the quilt throughout the night. Race woke up for good around -- well, no longer owning a watch, he didn't know what time it was, but the sky was getting lighter and Spot was wrapped around him. Well, momentarily.

Race felt Spot sit up behind him and turn around. He kept his eyes closed. Of course Spot wanted to leave without any kind of acknowledgement or conversation. Or, Race realized, any more kissing. He refused to sigh, or burrow into the quilt. He listened as Spot dropped lightly off the bed and picked up his cane. Spot's footsteps got quieter, and Race heard the door open and close.

He rolled onto his back, stretching his legs in the empty space left by Spot. He splayed his arms out and pulled the covers over his head. Maybe he could get a little more sleep before he was supposed to wake up. As he brought his arms back to his sides, something cold brushed against his arm. Race turned onto his side and peered at the round metal object next to him. He picked it up.

Race fell back asleep, listening to the ticking of his pocketwatch. 

 


End file.
